“You’re mine,” she breathed.
The corner of his mouth lifted up in a half grin and he nodded in agreement.
“I’ve been yours,” he murmured. “For longer than you even know.”
He kissed her and she pulled back, staring into his eyes earnestly. “And I belong to you.”
He pulled her forward again, kissing her hungrily. She opened her mouth for him, drinking him in. He pushed her back onto the bed, hovering over her before trailing his hand lightly down her face.
“I’ll never get enough of you,” he murmured. “You’re my heart, cutie pie.”
She shifted beneath him, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. He kissed her nose.
“I love you Brian.”
He grinned. “Exclamation point.”
Chapter 31
Saturday, 7:12 a.m.
Everyone is always talking about how weak love makes them. How it deludes their senses, makes their vision cloudy, makes them soft and malleable. I don’t know a lot about it, but I don’t think any of those things are right. Love makes you strong. Love covers your weaknesses. Love fills all of the tiny cracks in you that would be imperceptible to anyone else. Love is there even when you think you don’t want it or need it. Love stays. Love endures. Love covers. Love chooses. Love isn’t weak at all. Love is strength. And if God is love, and love is all of those things, I think that just maybe—well, I KNOW I’ll be okay. Actually… I’ll be better than okay.
###
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I prayed constantly while writing this book—to say that the unending grace of God sustained me is selling Him short. To my mom, who read this book at every stage, cheered me on and constantly asked me for another chapter, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have finished this if it weren’t for you. So thanks. And I mean that with everything in me. To my daughter who isn’t old enough to read this but will someday, I love you. You are my everyday joy. To my love, Mike, who said “darkening eyes” gave him the creeps, to my brother Justin for his creativity and support and to my brother Jordan and my dad for their grunts of encouragement, thanks. Also, a huge thank you to Ciarra Hodges, I so appreciate you. To every family member and friend who has ever given me a kind word encouragement, thank you. To the musicians who served as a soundtrack while I was writing: Jesse Boykins, The Foreign Exchange, Minnie Riperton, D’Angelo, Erykah Badu, Outkast, Stevie Wonder, John Legend, Scarface, Sade, Daley, Miles Davis, Kendrick Lamar, Killer Mike, Radiohead, Raphael Saadiq and countless others, thanks for sharing your art. And finally, to you—yes, you—thank you so much for reading these words. Sweet.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jacinta Howard is a writer, music junkie and lover of love. She lives in Atlanta with her family. Visit her at jacintahoward.net.
Happiness in Jersey
COMING SUMMER 2014
Excerpt from Happiness in Jersey copyright © 2014 by Jacinta Howard
Chapter 1
I’m not having an orgasm. And that realization is a little disappointing, given that he’s still on top of me pumping like there’s no tomorrow. Or like… well, I’m about to have an orgasm.
I would feel sad for him if I wasn’t the one under him, having to endure his sub-par sexual ability that he clearly has not yet realized is sub-par.
I wonder if Willow remembered to record the Different World marathon for me? Whitley is pretty freaking hilarious. She probably didn’t. Willow doesn't ever remember shit. I should’ve left one of those post-it notes for her. But I refuse to write a note on a damned neon heart for another girl. It’s weird. I wonder why she buys those kinds of post-its? I mean, I get that she’s a girly-girl and generally enjoys anything shaped like hearts but…
“Jersey!”
My eyes automatically opened when he said my name. He said it like he just realized he’s about to have an orgasm and I can’t help but feel more than a little giddy that this terrible shit is about to be over. Once upon a time I would’ve stopped him right in the middle of his pathetic, rhythm-less humping if he wasn’t getting me off. I must be getting nice or something. It’s probably that freaking Willow rubbing off on me.
I kept my eyes open, waiting for the moment as I studied his face. Despite his lack of sexual skill, he was pretty damned fine. Nice eyes. Strong jaw. Pretty smile. Not that it means anything. I never sleep with anyone that I don’t think is attractive.
A few seconds later, he grunts and rolls over, utterly spent. From what, I have no idea. I guess he worked really hard or something. I just hope he doesn't try to spoon me. Guys who think they need to spoon me after sex are pretty pathetic. Nothing about me even remotely suggests that I’m the kind of girl that enjoys spooning.
“That was so good.”
He inched toward me and tried to drag me against him. Shit. He wants to freaking spoon. I have to get out of here. I pulled out of his loose hold and sat up, pulling my short, manicured fingernails through my untamed, curly hair. He looked up at me with a content, almost cocky expression. He does realize I didn’t have an orgasm, right?
I somehow stopped myself from rolling my eyes and leaned over on my hands and knees to find my Spider-Man underwear, giving him a great view of my ass. It’s the last time he’ll ever see it, so why not?
He eyed my underwear as I sat down next to him, hastily pulling them on. I found my purple Jimi Hendrix t-shirt hanging off the side of the cheap mattress and slipped it over my head, ruffling my hair with my fingers again. I hadn’t taken off my bra, so once I found my shorts I’d be out of here. I lifted up his plain beige comforter and peered under the sheets. I’m pretty sure they’d been discarded under there somewhere.
“You were wearing Superman underwear?”
I didn’t glance at him.
“I am wearing Spider-Man underwear,” I corrected.
Seriously. What kind of idiot doesn’t know the difference between Superman and Spider-Man? Where the hell are my shorts?
“Are those actual little boy underwear?” he asked, still gaping. “Like for actual little boys?”
He had the nerve to sound disgusted. I rolled my eyes, becoming increasingly annoyed.
“They’re more comfortable than that lacy, frilly crap.”
I shot him a look. Why the hell was I explaining myself to this guy anyway? I don’t explain myself to anyone. I don’t have to.
“So what, did you buy them at Wal-mart or something? In one of those packages that have like, four or five pair in them?”
What the hell?
“Are you seriously still talking about my fucking underwear?” I asked, unable to help myself.
Where the hell are my shorts? I have to get out of here before I punch this asshole. He didn’t even get me off and now he’s talking shit about my choice of underwear? I knew coming up here was a mistake.
“You have such a potty mouth,” he said, making his disgusted face again.
I turned and scowled at him, this time not even trying to disguise my strenuous eye roll.
“What are you, eight? Who the fuck says ‘potty mouth’?” I said, deliberately trying to rile him.
He huffed but said nothing. I got up and peered underneath the bed. Yes! I yanked my holey jean shorts from under it and quickly put them on, jumping a bit as I pulled them over my hips, covering the tatt of the sun I have right where my hipbone meets my pelvis.
“Sorry if I offended you about the underwear thing,” he said, catching my eye as soon as my shorts were on. “You’re still the prettiest, sexiest girl I know. Your lips are incredible.”
Ugh, I think I just threw up in my mouth. I rolled my eyes at his blatant bullshit. I don’t have low self-esteem. I know I’m cute, even pretty when I try. I know a lot of guys think I’m sexy and I know the reason why is because I genuinely don’t give a crap about what people think about me anymore. Men dig that “untamed” shit.
My complexion is clear and brown with a red undertone. My Pops says it’s the Georgia red clay coming out in me�
��that shit doesn’t make any sense but he says it all of the time like it's a brilliant observation. My hair is thick and curly and my lips are lush but not so big that they don’t fit my round face. My nose is small but not too button-ish like the chick from America’s Next Top Model. What’s her name? Eva? Eve? Whatever. Not saying that anything is wrong with her nose. It works for her.
“We cool?” he pressed when I didn’t say anything.
“No worries,” I replied, still trying to be nice.
“We can hang out if you want,” he said, sounding hopeful but trying unsuccessfully to play it off. “I’ll order a pizza or something.”
“Nah,” I said, making my voice softer. “I have a test tomorrow and I need to go study.”
He smirked, almost like he didn’t believe me. I felt agitation surging in my chest. Dumbasses like him always think that just because I openly enjoy sex and don’t run around campus looking like the rest of these misguided chicks, I must not give a shit about my grades. Well, guess what? I have 3.8 GPA, assholes.
“I’ll call you later, J,” I lied, nevertheless.
I call him “J” because I can’t remember whether his name is pronounced Jer-on or Jer-in and I simply can’t bring myself to give a crap either way.
I found my bag and flip-flops by the door, grabbed my keycard and lip-gloss off of the small desk that was pushed against the wall of his dorm room and quickly opened the door.
“Okay, well, later,” he called after me, disappointment lacing his voice. I gave him a half-hearted wave, shutting the door soundly behind me.
Damn. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to worry about getting the obligatory “after sex” call, in which the guy openly wonders “where this is going.” The answer is always the same: Nowhere, dude. Now, kick rocks.
I made my way through the hallway that was littered with multi-colored flyers announcing study groups, open-mics and offers to join bullshit clubs nobody cares about and ambled down the wide stairs that led to the main entrance of the dorm building. I passed by a couple of guys who openly assessed me on my way down the steps but I wasn’t in the mood for them. My lack of orgasm had given me a momentary disdain for overly excited teen boys and their overly confident teenage sex experience. I pushed through the heavy front doors and inhaled.
It felt good to be out of J’s cramped, stuffy-ass room. The smell made me pretty sure he’d had more than his share of girls up there already, even though we were only a couple of weeks into the fall semester. His roommate, Derek, was clearly not getting any. Derek’s face looked like Mount Vesuvius erupted on it. I suppose I should probably be disturbed that I remember J’s roommate’s name and not his. But I’m not.
Oh well.
I dug in my bag for my Oreos, popping one in my mouth as I walked leisurely down the promenade toward Cannon Hall, where my dorm was located. The campus was littered with students, talking and laughing with the various groups that made up the student body. The lawns were impeccably manicured and thick clusters of pecan trees were dotted throughout the campus. It was idyllic, really. The immaculate landscaping was tailored specifically for overprotective moms and dads who otherwise would be too afraid to drop their precious sons and daughters off at school. Pecans trees definitely scream safety. No chance of date rape happening if the campus has pecan trees.
Really, I figured South Texas State was just like any other college—a means to an end. It got me the hell out of Douglasville, Georgia, which has been my sole desire since I was fourteen and fully realized that college could be a legitimate escape.
The curriculum at South Texas was decent enough, the students were average enough and the tuition was astronomically high and totally not worth it. Yep, just like every other university in America. Which is why I’m on academic scholarship. My scholarship covers about eighty-five percent of my tuition. The other fifteen percent is on me, courtesy of my job at the coffee shop around the corner, Aroma.
It was a little after seven and dusk was just starting to settle over the sky. It looked like red and orange crayons had melted there, merging together in a jumbled, but alluring mess. It made me want to draw, or play my bass outside on the patio like I used to do back home.
I kept my stroll steady as I passed a couple of girls who were clearly art majors. They practically wore their “creativity” and disdain for any conventionalism on their hipster sleeves. I hate hipsters. They’re stupid. Talking, dressing and looking like everyone else who “goes against the grain” kinda defeats the purpose of going against the grain, right?
Plus, majoring in anything artsy is a waste of time. I mean, I play the bass guitar and I’m not a music major. No way I’d ever do that stupid shit. I learned a long time ago that all of that following your dreams crap is just that… crap. I need to survive. And I don’t have fifteen years to waste “finding my way” while I wait for my art to start paying. Nope. I’m a business management major.
“Jersey!”
I whipped my head to the left and saw Devin, one of my oldest friends, jogging toward me. I finished off my cookie and waited for him to catch up to me. We grew up together in Douglassville and decided to come to college together. Actually, I decided to come college here. Devin didn’t really care where he went to school so when our overworked guidance counselor, Ms. Mitchell suggested South Texas he’d applied. Once he found out I was going it was just extra incentive, mostly because one day while sitting in Mr. Thompson’s Trig class, he decided that we were eventually going to be the black, unmarried version of the White Stripes. He’d literally texted me the declaration in the class. I remember because my phone buzzed loudly and Mr. Thompson almost kicked me out of class.
“Damn, Kinkaid,” he said calling me by my last name, as he often does. He sounded a little winded. “I’ve been trying to catch you for the past five minutes.”
“Sorry,” I offered with a slight shrug. “Must’ve zoned out.”
“I was just about to text you before I saw you,” he said, falling in step beside me. His Red Sox baseball cap was twisted backwards on his head and he was wearing a black Velvet Underground t-shirt and some camouflage army shorts with the bottoms cut off.
“What’s up?”
“We’re calling a mandatory rehearsal tonight. We booked that gig for Saturday at The Spot.”
Devin’s face was lit up like a Christmas tree as he delivered the news and I couldn’t help but grin in return. He plays drums and is the one who put our band, The Prototype, together last semester. He gets super excited whenever we actually book something. Mostly we just play open mics and jam sessions around town. A real featured gig is a feat for us.
“Awesome,” I said, trying to remember if Cheyenne had scheduled me to work on Saturday. I’m pretty sure she did. We won’t start playing until at least ten though, so there is no need to call out. It just means I’ll be extra tired. I usually works twelve-hour shifts on Saturdays so that I can have more time for school during the week.
“What time is rehearsal?” I asked, rounding the corner on the path to my dorm. “I’m supposed to be studying for my macroeconomics test as we speak.”
He rolled his eyes, repositioning his cap on his head.
“Come on, Jersey. You know you already studied for it, right?”
He eyed me, a knowing look on his face. In all truth, I already had. But I needed to review. I needed an ‘A’ on this test to pull my grade up from a ‘C+’, which was important for my overall G.P.A.
“We’re not all intellectually blessed like you,” I shrugged.
Devin is majoring in business management too and he has at least a 3.0, despite rarely going to class. Once again, he rolled his eyes. Normally a girl thing to do, but there isn’t much Devin can do to appear ‘girly.’ He’s so damned good-looking; everything he does is just sexy and enticing.
“Stop bullshittin’, Kinkaid,” he was saying. “We need you there. You’re the rhythm of the band, the pulse of the music, the vibe of the vibration.”
I
couldn’t help but laugh and he grinned. He really didn’t need to make a speech though. I never miss a rehearsal. We rehearse at our guitarist and sometimes singer, Travis’, house because he actually has a house with a garage and a basement. He stays about fifteen minutes from campus in the small, old house his grandma left him when she passed away a couple of years ago.
“You gotta help me review then,” I said, daring him to decline. He shrugged.
We passed by a group of Scantily Clads, as I call them, and Devin jerked his head to check them out. One of them turned around and grinned at him.
“Hold up,” he said, turning back toward her before I could respond.
I waited patiently twisting the mood ring I always wore on my ring finger. Devin is the most attractive guy in our band, not that Travis or Bam, our keyboardist are bad looking at all. They’re both actually really cute. But Devin is stereotypical-sexy. Caramel-complexion, sexy, bedroom eyes, lips that he licks a lot to draw attention to them and confidence that practically permeates from him. His hair is un-kept in a little ‘fro, but it works on him, gives him an edge and takes away from his natural, pretty-boy look.
Even though he plays the drums, he still gets the most attention, because he’s so charismatic and good-looking. Well, besides me—a girl bass player with wild hair and nice legs kind of demands attention too.
I picked at my chipped blue nail polish while I waited, wondering again if Willow had remembered to record A Different World. After my fiasco with J, I was in desperate need of a Whitely and Dwayne Wayne fix.
“They’re coming to the show,” Devin told me, grinning widely when he came back a couple of minutes later.
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